


The Pretender

by hyperions



Series: Empty Graves [2]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Minor Albus Dumbledore/Gellert Grindelwald
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 06:32:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13001904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyperions/pseuds/hyperions
Summary: He watches the world through another man's eyes and can't wait to see it burn.





	The Pretender

**Author's Note:**

> I've been meaning to write something for this fandom since I fell so hard and fast for all the wonderful characters. It's strange that I've decided to go with a POV-piece regarding this scumbag, but it's a place I've wanted to explore for a while soooo I guess here we are! Just a head's up, though: 
> 
> This does contain some content regarding brief, non-consensual contact. It's not extremely sexual or graphic, but it's still what some might find uncomfortable. So if that someone is you, I advise against reading this. Again, it's fairly mild, but I'd like to throw out a warning just in case.
> 
> Also, this might become a series of vignettes at some point. I have several ideas for the next parts, but I'll have to see if I can translate thoughts to keystrokes, haha.

The year is 1926 in New York City, the Big Apple herself ever agleam like a gem atop America's crown. It looks ripe for the taking from a well-furnished townhouse in the hub of busy evening -- truly the image of the American dream as enticing as it is a shining spectacle. A false luster, some _might_ say, but not the man watching out his bedroom window.

Opportunity, potential, the place of new beginnings… It couldn't be more poetic if he'd wrote it himself. Fate has smiled on him as it so often does, paints him golden and untouchable. He truly has landed at Columbia's feet and she's so kindly scooped him to her breast in all her goodness. It makes him smile, makes him smirk as he turns toward the bedroom vanity and opens his arms wide.

"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…" His voice is like silk, soft and satin-sleek from slanted lips. His grin shows teeth and his eyes - one brown, one blue - shine mischief in the dark. "The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door."

A breath of a laugh scrapes off his lips as they broaden that sly, fox's smile that looks far too well-suited to his face. He even flicks a wink at his own reflection and runs preening fingernails back through white-blond hair. Said reflection then moves of its own accord, nodding behind it toward the shadow of a figure sprawled haphazard on the bed. Gellert Grindelwald snaps his fingers as though in thanks to his doppelgänger who falls in time with him once more as he turns.

That other figure - the one he's been talking to indirectly - groans from where it lies tossed across the duvet like a sack of potatoes, like an afterthought. Grindelwald stands over him and watches his captive's dark eyebrows furrow in discomfort, but still he remains unconscious and unable to help himself out of the situation he's been dragged into. _Such a waste_ , thinks Grindelwald with a lazy click of his tongue. This one's got sleek good looks and a strong jaw; such an intense confidence and _so_ well-dressed. _But not too much of a waste_ , the captor amends to himself. It's a face he'll enjoy wearing.

Still, he nearly feels sorry for him. An Auror at the peak of his prime with the entirety of MACUSA's security forces tightly leashed in the iron grip of his hand… and here he is, a line of blood trailing from his hairline as he lies limp, a soon-to-be hostage in his own home. It's pathetic more than anything.

Percival Graves may have put up a fight, but bends like all the rest beneath the will of the Elder Wand. Said deadly instrument is settled perfectly innocent on the bedstand, looking so very plain against such a well-furnished room. It's still pointed at its prize, however; a viper poised to strike between its masters fingers within the rush of an instant. But Grindelwald isn't concerned with that possibility. Graves won't even remember the fight that got him here; won't remember at all how a particularly well-aimed stunning spell had nearly caught Grindelwald in the shoulder. The heat of it had sizzled electric even when deflected aside and his mastery of non-verbal spellwork had piqued the interest of his captor. 

A wolf, this one - fangs and snarling and eyes ablaze. Too bad he'd been cornered by a _tiger_ and one that had only been batting at him with claws half-drawn.

_Poor thing hadn't stood a chance._

None of them ever do, thinks Grindelwald as he leaves the bedside to approach the wardrobe instead. It's been too long since anyone has been able to match him curse-for-curse, wit-for-wit. Though his followers swell in numbers and force, the fun of it can fall lackluster. He feels less the role of the running fugitive and more the imminent force of change lingering smoke-like out of reach from those too incompetent to understand. They all hunger for his head on a spike, but they still search clueless through the forests and mountains of Europe where their own breadcrumbs lure them astray. The only thing they'll find is a chateau of corpses and a labyrinth of dead ends. What is there to fear here, in the Land of Opportunity? And so his wit, though ever sharp, stirs restless. Even his brief duel with Graves had left him wanting - but he is _always_ left wanting.

With languid flourishes of his hand, he coaxes out Graves' coat and other clothes from the wardrobe without need of wand or incantation. He even sighs as he thinks about the last time he ever felt any kind of thrill besides the faintest flicker of taking lives (and certainly some more than others).

That last time is easy to remember. Memories paint the pictures of years and years ago -- the faces of two young wizards scheming under candlelight. He recalls that Albus' room had smelt of parchment and books, but also of something vaguely sweet he used to wrinkle his nose at. There had been so many of those rainy days at Godric's Hollow spent planning their world -- _his_ world -- with lingering glances he would encourage to the sultry curl of his lips. Oh, how Albus had  _stared_. And every chance, every wandering glimpse had been encouraged with subtle strokes to tempt him closer ( _wrap him tighter, tighter until he chokes_ ).

He knows he'd been handsome, all blond and tousled and looking a little like danger with the way his mis-matched eyes would taunt in hungry, come-hither looks. Albus used to compliment his eyes. Used to think they were "interesting" and that only ever meant _attractive_ to someone like Albus Dumbledore.

It makes him smirk now to think of how close his old friend would lean when he'd point out a passage in a book or write something for him to read. Probably to catch the scent of him (dark smoke and dark secrets and dark woods) or to feel the heat of his breath washing "accidental" into the crook of his neck. Where is he now, then? They may have parted on sour terms, but Grindelwald likes to think the poor sap still thinks about what the two of them could've been when he's aching and alone in the dead of night. He probably sighs into his pillow and tries not to think too much about the warmth that could've spooned there with him, whispering pretty words into his ear.

_Poor thing hadn't stood a chance._

Gellert takes pause amidst his thoughts to glance again into the vanity mirror. He's exchanged his own clothes for Graves' favored ensemble and straightens the collar of his waistcoat almost fondly. The clothes fit more broadly along the shoulders, but it won't matter once he's transfigured himself. Still, he thinks it's a look that could suit him, if slightly too stiff for his tastes.

It's as he fixes a set of scorpion pins to his lapels that he wonders vaguely about the vision he's been turning over and over again in his head. The fog of it envelopes a young man with a long, sad face and eyes burning needy for him. This man stands hunched, miserable in the shadow of his mother with her arm outstretched in the zeal of her cause. But it's this melancholy man that is an image so plain within the mist of it, the haze of things unseen. An opportunity anew, perhaps? Sad is very easy to work with, as is the utmost longing in dark, glossy eyes. He can practically _feel_ the ache throbbing within a fragile ribcage - a bird starved for freedom and acceptance from an open palm.

_Poor thing won't stand a chance._

Finally, Grindelwald decides to do something about Graves. He doesn't even need the flick of his wand to yank the man off the bed and onto the floor with the pull of magic. The spell drags him along the floorboards as Grindelwald himself opens a closet door so that his captive may pass into the darkness beyond. An enchantment, of course, puts him in a room more like a dungeon where bindings unfurl from the shadows themselves to coil tight around his wrists and ankles. He'll be cursed throughout his stay, unable to regain consciousness completely and only waking enough for interrogation at the whims of his captor. 

But there's a moment - the slightest sliver - that makes Grindelwald hesitate before he closes the door. Graves' eyes are only half-open, but then flicker their gaze up into his very sudden, very intense as though a piece of him is fighting to peer through the fog he's bewitched in. Gellert smiles.

"Now, now. Don't look at me like that…"

Fluid as a cat, he approaches the disgraced Auror with drawn-out footfalls. Said cat prowls unhurried toward the canary wilted in its cage, purrs as it drags its claws across the bars just to see if the bird's broken wings try to twitch. He squats down in front of him and shakes his head as though truly sympathetic.

"It's all for the greater good, you know." Legilimency lets him nudge into Percival's mind. There is no struggle, no tension besides the feeble grasp of someone who doesn't know when to quit. He shoves it aside with ease, invading into the privacy of thoughts and memories with the flippancy of someone skimming the daily paper. He can't help but chuckle. "I think you and I would've agreed, in some way, that all of this hiding needs to end… It's just not fair, is it?"

He reaches to smooth some of Graves' slick, dark hair back out of his face. The man's too weak to react, but there's a flutter of his eyelids and a small tension in his jaw that doesn't go unnoticed. So Grindelwald lets his fingertips brush a ghost of a touch down the side of his face until he can clutch his chin and prop it up enough for them to meet eyes properly. There's nothing rough there, only hollow tenderness pressing soft against the scratch of his stubble.

"Don't worry, I think I'll do you justice. I'm very convincing," purrs that velveteen voice. Graves fidgets. "In fact, you're going to be very famous when this is all over. The mask of _the_ Gellert Grindelwald… The face of the Wizarding World's true revolution…" He laughs, squeezes his chin as though adoring. "I'll make sure they get your good side."

He pulls Graves' face up into a kiss, lips folding it languid against his mouth before he pulls away. And as he does, his face is no longer that of Gellert Grindelwald, but of a grinning Percival Graves. It's the last thing the real Graves sees before he slumps into the stone floor, unconscious again.

Grindelwald turns to leave with the sweep of his coat, new clothes now fitting tailor-made on the shape of a body that isn't his. With a flick of his wrist, the door closes to leave Graves to the darkness of his fate. Grindelwald will return to him as needed, sorting through his memories to make sure he gets every last scrap of information necessary to put on the perfect show. MACUSA's a tough crowd and he wants them throwing roses at his feet when the curtain falls.

The last little piece is the black wand resting useless on the floor by the window. It's scooped up in a hand that twirls it idle between his fingers before pocketing it. No more is the most wanted wizard in the world, but rather MACUSA's Director of Magical Security looking only slightly worn after a long week of assignments.  Gellert Grindelwald is only a name edging the wind, taunting the chains of the law that want him locked away for his big ideas. And _possibly_ a few dozen murders, but killers are a dragot a dozen. He is something far, far more than that - simply a revolutionary come to free them from the shackles that trap them to the mud. His followers know he's out there, can feel him every time they clutch tight to the silver pendant of his mark. But they'll never find him here - no one will. Not when he has poor, dear Percival in the closet and a mind just as penetrating as it is impenetrable.

The Elder Wand feels warm in his hold when he finally plucks it from the bedstand, ever-faithfully welcoming the touch of its true master. It's only a matter of time, he muses whilst letting his free hand trail its touch across the edge of the bed (the bed that's his now, his to claim like all the rest of Graves' pretty things). Not only will he spark the catalyst that will tear America's non-magical world asunder, but he'll set everything ablaze in a wildfire of change as soon as all the pieces fall into place. And from the ashes crawl the strong; the rightful heirs to a world where magic rules over men. It's the kind of anticipation that prickles excitement down his neck as he finally leaves the bedroom to saunter downstairs.

He can't get too far ahead of himself when there's still a vision to chase. So he pauses before opening the front door, ignoring the sounds of Graves' oblivious house elves in the kitchen a few rooms over. The eyes he's stolen - dark, intense, robust - close and a smile curls its way secret up one corner of his mouth. It's really happening. The Obscurus is here in this city and all he has to do is find the man he'll soon have wrapped around his finger in marionette strings. His plans are so close to coming together that he can practically taste that salty ash on the back of his tongue.

Looks like it's time to start the show.

He opens the door to the cool night air and his posture immediately changes. Lazy swaggering and languid-rolling shoulders become rigid with purpose, with intent. His head holds higher, chin propped proud and the sneer of his smile gone completely. He is no longer the prowling tiger, but the silvered wolf with watchful guard and a pack to protect. As he passes the dark window of a closed store-front, he can't help but glimpse at his reflection in the mask of an idle side-glance. There isn't a trace of himself glancing back, as though _he's_ the one captive in another man's skull and left spying though windows to the outside.

He's _that_ good.

It's enough to coax a very slight, slanted half-smirk up the crease of his mouth in sheer smugness. But he has to stop in his tracks when he steps in a puddle and hits something other than stone. He makes sure to look very unimpressed as he bends enough to peel something soggy from the sole of his shoe. It's a pamphlet thoroughly soaked through and barely legible apart from large, bold letters that still read " _SAVE AMERICA FROM WITCHES!_ "

Though Grindelwald maintains control enough to have it look subtle, the eyes of Percival Graves can't help but light up. It's as though his prey is sprawling out before him, pleading he sink his teeth into an open throat. His reconnaissance of the New Salem Philanthropic Society before choosing his disguise had been reasonable enough once he'd discovered that the woman in his visions is their ringleader, but now he doesn't even have to bother with Graves' office for more information. Fate truly adores him, doesn't she?

His face doesn't show much of his amusement (more a snobbish discomfort), but now he's walking a different route. MACUSA will wait until tomorrow. The vision of his dreams has offered up the image of a young man needing him _dearly_ and who is he to keep him waiting too much longer? _That would be cruel._ So he turns down a new road that will wander him closer to where his prize might be drifting, lurking, yearning for the stern-faced prince charming who will surely be the best thing that's ever happened to him.

Now that the curtain's up and he's walking the stage, he can't waste too much time. He really wants those roses.

_And none of them will stand a chance._

 


End file.
